


Kidnapped

by maqcy



Series: Whumptober 2018 [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Hurt Sam Winchester, Fear, Gen, Hurt, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapped, M/M, Non-Sexual Bondage, POV Sam Winchester, Suicidal Thoughts, Whump, Whumptober, spells, unwanted touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-27 17:07:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16223531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maqcy/pseuds/maqcy
Summary: Sam Winchester is being kept down in the dark, but he doesn't know why.





	1. Kidnapped I

**Author's Note:**

> This one got a little dark(er) so watch yourselves peeps and check the warnings! hope you enjoy.. :)

Sam tugged at the handcuffs that bound his wrists but they didn’t move. He was chained to an industrial pipe and the thing didn’t so much as creak when he pulled on it, even when he strained until his wrists were chafed.

“You awake?”

Sam squinted ahead of him, keeping his mouth shut as he heard a new lightbulb being screwed into the lamp. The light came on in the corner and the man holding him captive approached. Sam could smell fresh, hot chips and his mouth watered but he didn’t say anything as the man stripped off his coat, flinging it over a bench that workmen must have once sat on. This place was underground and Sam hadn’t been able to figure out its purpose, but there were dust-crowned yellow helmets hanging from the walls and grey overalls that had bloomed with mould.

The man pushed up the sleeves of his jacket, looking pink in the face from exertion, or the cold outside. The man told him the weather was getting cold out, anyway. Sam couldn’t tell. Down here it was always cold.

“You hungry, Sammy?” the man said but he didn’t tease before he came over, crouching down next to Sam to offer him a plastic forkful of chips. Sam opened his mouth willingly, shifting slightly and making the mattress creak under him, and the man smiled, “Like a hungry baby bird,” he murmured. Sam glanced at him warily, but the man kept feeding him chips and Sam devoured them until his head felt a little less fuzzy with lack of food.

The man rubbed his fingers through Sam’s hair when Sam had eaten his fill and Sam cringed from the touch, making the man still.

“I haven’t hurt you, have I?” he said, sounding sad and faintly hurt. Sam kept his head down as he glanced towards the door that the man always came down from, but it was closed as usual, not that Sam could get out of these restraints anyway.

When it was clear that the man wanted a response, Sam silently shook his head and the man hummed.

“You’re so quiet,” he muttered. Sam could feel the man studying him but he didn’t look up, tense until the scrutiny. “I thought…” the man trailed off and didn’t finish his sentence and Sam found himself wondering what the man had been going to say. The man seemed so kind sometimes, with his green eyes and the worried way his forehead folded up, that Sam struggled to hold on to his hatred of the man who kept him captive here. But he clutched at his anger with an iron grip because he wasn’t sure what he’d do if he didn’t.

 _I just want to go home_ , Sam thought for the thousandth time. He’d said it aloud a couple of times, a while back, but though the man had never reprimanded him for talking, Sam quickly realised that the man wasn’t going to be talked into releasing him and, after that, Sam just didn’t have much to say.

“I got you some more audiobooks,” the man said and Sam wished that he didn’t feel a small blossom of gratefulness in his chest. More than the cold, more than being hungry and being afraid, Sam got so fucking bored being sat on the floor staring at a breezeblock wall, if he could even see it. It was 60-40 whether the lamp would stay on or not since power fluctuations frequently blew the bulbs. Sam didn’t know what generator the man had the electricity down here wired up to but it was crap.

“I know how you like the old books so I bought you some of those,” the man came over and put a small stack of audiobook cases down by the old radio Sam played them on. “The batteries still good on this thing?” the man asked and Sam nodded. The man had replaced them a week or so back, after Sam had managed to get the words out to ask him. “Alright, how’re we feeling about a bath today, huh, Sam? You’re getting a little ripe there. I’ll get the water nice and warm, not like last time, okay?”

Sam clenched his jaw and turned his head. He hated being washed, because he felt so weak, and he resented the man for the care he took. Perhaps it would be easier if the man was rough with him but he was never anything but gentle. It made the whole thing almost intimate and Sam loathed it.

He heard the man sigh, “Yeah I know you’re not a fan,” he said, sounding tired. The man often sounded wearied and there were bags under his eyes more often than not. Some days he came down the stairs limping, or Sam would spot blood coming through his shirt from a cut and the man would just look at the stain and sigh. Whatever work the man was involved in, Sam bet it was violent and probably illegal.

Without saying anything else, the man went away to turn on the water heater, which made an awful racket and Sam, thirsty after the chips, fumbled with his cuffed hands to pick up one of the beakers on the floor, which had straws stuck in them. The man washed them out and refilled them each time he came to visit, along with the water bottle that Sam pissed in, and Sam wouldn’t say it but he was grateful that the man did it.

Sam listened to the splash of water and the man came back after a while, a towel slung over one shoulder. The taser he always carried was hanging from his belt loop.

“You need to use the bog first?” the man asked and Sam nodded.

The man was always careful when he was handling Sam. There was the taser that was always in reach, and then he only unlocked Sam’s restraints from the pipe when he’d already locked a second pair on him, always keeping him tethered. Then it was a slow, reluctant shuffle over to the bathroom, his stiff body complaining. The man left him alone to use the toilet but that was the only time and he was still kept bound.

The man never seemed to take any pleasure from Sam’s anger, or his humiliation as he clinically removed Sam’s clothes to help him into the small shower stall, and Sam didn’t understand why the man kept him here. That was the question that plagued him most but when he’d asked, both pleadingly and with anger, the man just shook his head and refused to tell him, just said that it was _necessary_.

Sam tensed with a shiver when the man ran a hand down his flank, his fingers slick with soap as he cleaned the dust and sweat from Sam’s skin. Sam faced the wall, butt-naked with his wrists locked onto the base of the showerhead, and didn’t do anything except grit his teeth as the man washed him. Every time the man had washed him Sam had thought about kicking the man in the teeth, but what good would it do except piss the man off? Sam would still be attached to the wall.

The man cleaned Sam’s hair and Sam had to stop himself from leaning into the man’s touch then, it felt so good. Then he was towelled off where he stood and put back in his pants and the weird shirt that had buttons all up the arms that allowed the man to put it on Sam while he was still cuffed. Sam had looked at the thing and concluded that the man had made it himself, judging by the awful stitching. Just how long had he been planning to take Sam, or someone, before he did it? Or was it that this shirt had belonged to somebody else, someone before Sam who was now…gone. Sam tried not to think about it to much because he just ended up feeling sick. It was good to remember what the man was capable of, though, when he was giving Sam those soft, sad smiles.

“Alright, that’s better,” the man said, seeming to be talking more to himself than Sam, as he often did.

The man did all the things he usually did when he came to visit each day for a couple of hours, including feeding Sam his vitamin and shaving Sam’s jaw with soap, if Sam would let him. Some days, Sam didn’t care enough to stop the man from carefully lathering his face and then running a guarded razor over it, but other days he wanted so badly not to be touched by the fucker that kept him down here like a rat that he snarled at the man like the animal he felt like. The man left him alone then. Today (tonight? Sam didn’t know) Sam did nothing as the man came over with the water and, a little roughly but not unkindly, shaved his face.

“Your hair’s gotten longer,” the man muttered, touching the damp strands at the side of Sam’s face and Sam twitched his head out of the man’s fingers with a scowl. Of course it had grown; he’d been stuck down here for what felt like months. “Show me your wrists?” the man said. He tended to phrase orders as questions but Sam usually did what he said anyway. There wasn’t any point in pissing him off if he didn’t have to. The man’s mouth turned down and his face tightened with displeasure as he moved the metal cuffs away from Sam’s abraded skin. “Why do you do this?” he said quietly, not really seeking an answer.

“Can’t help it,” Sam said softly and the man startled a little to hear him speak. Sam hadn’t really meant to, the words just fell out.

The man was silent for several seconds. “Yeah, I get it,” he said. He spoke quietly enough, and was already turning away, so that Sam wasn’t sure he’d heard him right. How could the man possibly understand? And yet he’d almost sounded like he did. “I’ll get some cream,” he said, walking away, and Sam watched him go, frowning.

The man crouched down in front of Sam to put the cream on, carefully rolling up Sam’s sleeves. Sam winced when the man’s fingers made contact with his skin, “Sorry,” the man said and Sam blinked and shook his head.

“ _Why_ am I here?” Sam asked lowly, again, because he never got an answer out of the man, but he just didn’t get it. The man didn’t want information, or to use some skill that Sam had, and Sam knew because he’d offered repeatedly at the start. And he didn’t want money off Sam or anyone Sam knew. He didn’t seem sadistic, and he hadn’t tried to rape Sam.

But the man just shook his head silently, not even looking at Sam, and Sam snatched his hand out of the man’s grip to hit the man on the shoulder, his short chain clanking against the metal pipe.

“Why won’t you tell me?” Sam hissed. “If you’re going to keep me holed up like this, fucking- _stealing_ away my life, driving me insane down here in the dark, you could at least give me a reason!” the man stood up, stepping away from Sam. Sam glared at him, so fucking angry, and snatched at the chains, making the marks on his wrists worse, “Do you get off on it?” he demanded roughly. His voice sounded odd to him. “Did I do something to piss you off? I don’t understand!” the man’s face had twisted and he was stood side-on to Sam, his fists clenched by his side, but Sam couldn’t make himself stop, “ _Why won’t you tell me?_ ” he all but shouted.

The man spun around to face him, “ _Because I can’t!_ ” he yelled and Sam’s recoiled so sharply that he hit his head on the wall and cringed at the noise his skull made, temporarily stunning him.

“Fuck, are you okay?” the man said. He came quickly over, making Sam flinch, but Sam’s anger had dried up and he did nothing when the man carefully checked the back of his head, but he hadn’t broken the skin. The man exhaled heavily, still crouching close by. He sounded as tired as Sam felt. “If there was another way, I would take it,” the man said and Sam turned to stare at him. It was the most he’d gotten out of the man in- weeks? Months? Usually the man just clammed up and treated him to a heavy silence.

“I don’t understand,” Sam said.

The man turned sad green eyes on him, “I know,” he said and then stood up, picking up his coat to leave. Sam watched him go in silence, left alone with his thoughts long after the door had clanged shut.


	2. Kidanapped II

Sam wasn’t sure how long it had been but his head was throbbing and his heart felt like it was going too fast. The man didn’t seem to be coming back and Sam had run out of water. He lay on the mattress and stared into the darkness, wishing sleep would come as his tongue stuck to the inside of the mouth and his dry throat ached.

 *

Sam flinched at the sound of the door opening, disorientated for a moment before he blinked groggily.

“Sam?” the man said, sounding winded, and Sam choked as the lamp was fixed and turned out. Then the man’s face was staring down at him and Sam stared back. To his horror, he started crying silently and the man’s face twisted. “God, I’m sorry,” he said and Sam didn’t know what he was feeling, whether he hated the man or half loved him just for coming back, whether he’d even wanted the man to come back or if he’d been getting ready to just slide into death. Being kept down here was just kind of a living death, like purgatory, except Sam didn’t know what he’d done wrong, nor how to atone for it.

The man took a step towards Sam and Sam saw the raw pain that crossed the man’s face and saw that the man’s arm was wrapped protectively around his stomach and that the man looked pale. What-?

“I’ll get you water,” the man said tightly, coming towards Sam to pick up two of the empty beakers with an expression of deep regret on his face, even as his features twisted in pain when he crouched down and Sam saw a muscle twitch in the man’s jaw. But Sam was thirsty enough that he said nothing as the man walked stiffly towards the shower room to fill up the containers, even as he fought with himself. Should he deny the water? If he just suffered through a few days more, at most, then he would be done with this place. It felt like giving up.

Sam dragged himself up to sitting in the meantime, blinking dizzily when he managed to steady himself. The man came back with the water and Sam’s attention fastened on to it as the man poked a fresh straw through the top and offered it to him. Sam took it but then stopped and stared at it.

“Sam?” the man said, sounding perplexed. Sam was silent. He looked up when the man came over to him, moving more slowly than usual, and then sat down with a soft, pained grunt at the end of Sam’s mattress. “I didn’t mean to leave you, Sammy,” he said, looking at Sam with pleading eyes. He uncurled his arm from around his stomach and peeled up his shirt while Sam watched in horror, staring at the bloodied bandage there. “I got injured,” the man said heavily as he lowered his shirt again and avoided Sam’s eyes. “I won’t disappear on you again, okay. Just drink the water, Sammy.”

Sam blinked and looked back down at the straw. “I don’t want to live like this,” he managed, his voice rasping painfully.

He heard the man exhale. “There’s isn’t any other option,” he said, sounding so damn sure of himself.

Sam gritted his jaw, clenching his fingers around the beaker. “Yeah there is,” he said.

“I can’t let you go,” the man huffed, like Sam was being dense, but Sam just looked up to meet the man’s gaze solemnly and watched the realisation dawn on that handsome face. “Oh shit,” the man muttered. “Fuck, Sam, don’t think like that, okay-”

“This isn’t living,” Sam said flatly, exhausted. He wanted the water so badly, but he wasn’t sure he wanted any of what came after.

“Come on,” the man said, “You’ve got the books, and your notebook, and- and- I feed you okay don’t I?”

Sam narrowed his eyes, “You think that’s enough?” he snapped, wincing at the way his voice cracked. “I sit in the dark, unable to walk, or see the fucking sky, or talk to people, or do fucking _anything_ ,” he shoved the beaker away from him, spilling water across the concrete floor and curled his knees up to his chest, his chains clinking. “Why don’t you just stop being a coward,” he said quietly. “And _kill me_.”

The man physically flinched. “ _No_ ,” he said.

“Why not?” Sam cried, and then covered his face with his hands. He had no more tears to shed but he didn’t want the man to see the agony he was feeling. He felt weak, useless, broken.

There was a tentative hand on his shoulder and Sam did nothing when the man hugged him, drawing him close. It was the most physical contact he’d had since he woke up down here and Sam closed his eyes and rested his chin on the man’s powerful shoulder.

“I don’t know what’s right anymore,” the man said lowly, before he drew away and turned his back to Sam to hide his face. Sam didn’t know what to say because he didn’t understand what was going on.

“If I- if I tell you, you could go mad,” the man said. Sam blinked.

“You think I’m not already?” he said blankly, staring at the man. He had _no idea_ what it was like to sit alone in the dark day after day after day.

The man swallowed and frowned, rubbing his forehead. “I was trying to do what’s best for you,” he muttered and Sam frowned but didn’t interrupt, holding his breath as he waited, hoping the man would tell him what was going on.

“I- you’re my brother, Sam,” the man said, choking on the words.

Sam reeled backwards dizzily, “No I’m not,” he said. He was- he was an only child. He was a lawyer, he- he frowned, trying to picture his family but it was so fuzzy. He must be dehydrated.

“Yeah, yeah you are,” the man and Sam scanned his face, trying to read the lie there but the man just looked exhausted and incredibly sad. “You’re Sam Winchester, you’re my baby brother and I’d do fucking anything for you.”

“Then…why am I down here?” Sam said, touching the handcuffs.

The man’s forehead crumpled, “Because you’re dangerous,” he said quietly, his shoulders hunched. His arm was wrapped around his stomach still and Sam could see blood on his fingers in the pale lamp-light. “Because the demon blood changed something in you and you turned on me, on us all, and went rabid, Sam, and this was the only thing that worked.”

Sam felt anger ripple through him. He had waited so long for this explanation but the man was making no fucking _sense_. “What the fuck are you talking about?” he snapped. “ _Demon blood_?”

The man laughed weakly, “Yeah,” he said. “Hunting monsters. The family business, Sammy.” Sam blinked as that stirred something inside him, a memory maybe, but he couldn’t- quite- reach it. The man’s words were crazy, though, and Sam scowled at the floor, feeling cheated. The man continued, “But I swore I wouldn’t tell you, ‘cause the knowledge will break the spell, apparently.”

“You’re insane,” Sam snarled. “You’re just fucking insane. You need a fucking psychiatrist.”

The man jerked an irritated hand at him, “I guess its good you don’t believe me,” he muttered. “Better than you going back to- _that_.”

 _Brother?_ Sam thought. It was the only bit of what the man had told him that kept returning to him. _Brother?_ Sam turned to stare at the man, at his green eyes and very faint freckles and his tired face. A name rose up.

“Dean,” he said.

The man blinked and then jerked backwards and stood up sharply, making Sam stare at him warily. “You remember?” the man said warily.

Did he? “I…don’t know?” Sam said slowly.

“Well, don’t look too hard at it,” the man…Dean said, sounding nervous.

Faces drifted up like mud disturbed in a lake, dirtying the water but revealing what had lain hidden.

“Cas,” he said. “And Bobby?”

“…Yeah,” Dean said slowly.

A sudden pain stabbed through Sam’s head, and it wasn’t dehydration this time. “Fuck,” he hissed. “ _Ruby_ -”

Dean threw his hands out, “ _Stop_ , Sam- stop fucking thinking about it! What- what book are you listening to, huh? Tell me about that okay? This isn’t safe!”

But Sam couldn’t, “Oh my god,” he muttered. “I almost killed you. I was so high, it felt so good.”

“Sam!” Dean yelled.

“But I’m not on it anymore, am I?” Sam demanded, looking up at Dean. He remembered now, how utterly- disconnected he’d felt. He hadn’t cared about anything at all, except for getting more blood and Dean had been in his way. He remembered how the blood had felt inside him- slimy and powerful and _alive_ , always seeking out more. But it wasn’t there any more, he was just- Sam. “You-” Sam broke off, staring at the floor as everything rushed in with such intensity. Pain stabbed in his skull again, but it wasn’t the madness Dean feared, Sam was sure, it was just the remnants of the spell breaking down.

“You still with me Sammy?” Dean said and Sam looked up to see Dean- his _brother_ , looking down at him with scared eyes.

“Yeah,” he said. “I think it was just the blood, Dean. I think- I might be okay now.” Sam swallowed around his dry tongue. “Can I have some water now?”

Dean stared at him for a second and then laughed, low and pained, “Yeah, of course,” and he fetched the second beaker, which Sam sipped out, careful not to make himself sick even as the cold water felt so fucking good on his sore throat.

Dean brought out a packet of biscuits and some fruit and Sam ate that slowly, until his stomach was sore and he stopped. He kept finding Dean looking at him like he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.

“I’m not gonna snap, Dean,” Sam said. “I’m okay.”

Dean shook his head silently, “I’ve spent two months terrified that you were gonna go mad again,” he said, still shooting Sam sideways glances.

“Two months?” Sam said softly, staring at the wall behind Dean’s head, the wall he’s spent so many hours staring at.

“Yeah,” Dean said brokenly. “I’m so sorry, Sammy,” he breathed. “I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know.”

Sam looked at his brother and thought how much pain and anger and terror he’d felt down here, going slowly mad, but he looked at the raw sorrow in Dean’s face and said, “I forgive you.”

Dean gave him a watery smile, “How do I know you haven’t got a demon left somewhere in you?” he said, before dragging a hand through his hair.

Sam shrugged silently, “I dunno,” he muttered. “Throw holy water at me?” he closed his eyes, feeling like he could sleep for a year, but he didn’t want to, he wanted to go outside again and walk around and hug Bobby and take a bath on his own.

“Fuck it,” Dean muttered and Sam raised his eyebrows. “Alright, alright,” Dean muttered, before he was standing up and walking away. Sam heard a cabinet opening and frowned as Dean came back with a couple of bottles of what looked like water.

Dean frowned down at him, scrutinising him as he unscrewed a bottle and Sam braced for the water he was pretty sure was going to get thrown at him. And he was right, cool water splattering his face and getting in mouth, tasting like plastic.

He pulled a face, “Thanks, jerk,” he said. Dean studied him for a second longer before shrugging.

“I’m seriously fucking done with this, man,” he said and Sam watched him. “If you kill me, I’ll deserve it, I guess.”

“I’m not gonna,” Sam said. Dean didn’t look wholly convinced but he was pulling out the keys to Sam’s cuffs and Sam’s eyes widened in sheer desire and he held out his wrists eagerly.

“Probably making a huge mistake,” Dean muttered, but he slotted the key in the lock anyway.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Sam said and Dean cracked a smile.

“God, I missed you,” he said.

Sam smiled back. “I would say I missed you too but…” he said. Dean got the handcuffs off and then cuffed him lightly over the head.

“Asshole,” he said.

Sam flexed his newly freed wrists. “Outside?” he said hopefully, and then frowned, “What month even is it? November?”

“December,” Dean said with a pained smile. “Brace yourself for the Christmas decorations dude.”

“Okay,” Sam said smiling.

Dean helped him to his feet and together they stumbled out the door and up the stairs. Sam’s legs were unsteady and weak and Dean hissed in pain at the flex of the skin over his abdomen but they made it out. Sam turned his head up to a cloudy sky and felt a sluggish breeze on his face, and Dean’s arm strong around his shoulders and he felt something like hope stir in him for the first time in weeks. He felt alive again.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts? Feelings? Vague sensations of doom and disgust? Do leave a comment!


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